


Possession(s)

by umbrafix



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Courting with presents, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7137200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raymond Reddington liked to give her things, and seemed to derive inexplicable amounts of pleasure from her not turning them down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pearls and Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve just found this series, and this fandom, and these characters are amazing! So much fun! This will be set throughout season 1, so spoilers for that, although in this fic I personally support the notion that Tom was shot til he was dead.

It started out so innocently, or at least so small that she didn’t even realise it was happening at first.

 

But no, that was a lie, because actually the first few gestures were so extravagant as to be ridiculous; she’d rejected them out of hand without attaching any deeper meaning to them.

 

She’d thought he was mocking her.

 

Over time, however, her profiler’s brain had ticked away, and she noticed things which she hadn’t at the start – when she’d been too caught up in awe and irritation and fear and frustration and curiosity.

 

The way his eyes followed her reactions so carefully, even as he pretended something was a casual, almost meaningless gesture on his part. The nervous tic in the corner of his mouth as he waited, the guarded set to his jaw. The way the light shone in his eyes if she accepted.

 

Raymond Reddington liked to give her things, and seemed to derive inexplicable amounts of pleasure from her not turning them down.

 

\------------------

 

He never offered her money, but he tried to gift her with almost everything else.

 

Ice cream. Diamonds. Dresses. An island. A Helicopter. The finest pizza restaurant in DC. Holidays. Evidence of her husband’s infidelity and criminal activity. A boost to her career. Underwear. An antique bicycle. Perfume. An apartment. And a recipe for spaghetti carbonara which he swore even she would not be able to ruin.

 

Not in that order. And many more besides.

 

\------------------

 

During her very first case with him it had been jewellery.

 

From their surveillance room, she and Ressler had watched Reddington’s smug face as he toasted them with his supper. Enough, she’d thought, enough. She was sore, and tired, and wanted to be home and in Tom’s arms so fiercely she ached with it. Reddington was providing information, yes, but mostly what he was doing was winding them all up and then watching them run around on his words.

 

She’d told Assistant Director Cooper that he was telling the truth, that he was establishing value, but _how much_ of the truth was yet to be seen – he had a vested interest in not showing all of his cards at once, after all.

 

Just looking at him was giving her a headache.

 

Standing and stretching for the first time in an hour, she told Ressler she was going home. Her torn and battered jacket was draped sadly over a chair, probably unsalvageable after the crash. It had been new, for her first day at work.

 

After nodding goodbye to the agent stationed at their door, she paused at the one posted three doors down. Reddington had protested of course – how could he play ‘business as usual’ with the FBI haunting his door – but they’d insisted on it for tonight.

 

This agent had shifted slightly on her approach, but recognised her and gave a friendly goodnight. “Goodnight,” she said absently, and then, “Actually, I want to speak with him for a minute.”

 

Reddington stood smoothly when she entered, the guard closing the door behind her, and smiled as though he were welcoming her to his palace rather than just temporary accommodation before he was locked up again. And god, she couldn’t even believe people stayed in places like this. How much did this place cost a night?

 

“Agent Keen, what an unexpected pleasure. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

 

He set his glass aside on the table, and linked his hands in front of him, waiting her out.

 

She hadn’t come in here with any fixed plan, and under his interested stare felt suddenly out of her depth. But that was a feeling she knew how to deal with, standing taller, head high. It was important to look him straight in the eye, to show that he wasn’t intimidating her, that she wasn’t impressed.

 

”I’m heading home. Do you have anything new for us?”

 

He spread his hands wide, and looked around the suite. “And where would I have come up with this information in the last two hours? Besides, you have a camera-“ and here he pointed at the small device clasped atop the lamp “-watching my every move. Not to belie my reputation, but I’m not a _magician_.” His eyes creased as his smile grew wider.

 

Stay neutral, stay neutral. Don’t aggravate him, he’s an asset, she chanted to herself.

 

“I’m sure you have your ways,” she said dryly.

 

“Well, that is what makes this partnership work, isn’t it. _My ways_.”

 

“Well, if you don’t have anything-“

 

“I do have something else for you, however” he interrupted smoothly

 

“Is it about the case?”

 

“Not as such, but-“

 

“Then we’re done here.”

 

“There’s no need to be so impatient,” he said wryly. “I’ll just…”

 

He turned away, looking at the table behind him, and she did _not_ want to get drawn into a prolonged conversation with him at this time of night.

 

“Enjoy your evening,” she said over her shoulder as she moved back to the door. She barely had her hand on the handle when she felt a disturbance in the air behind her, and turned to find he’d silently crossed the room to stand right behind her, holding up a string of pearls against her throat.

 

“Oh, yes, Lizzie,” he said admiringly, as though his actions were perfectly normal, as though he weren’t a complete stranger invading her personal space with great enthusiasm. “I do think that these are exactly what-“

 

She slapped his hand away; saw the slightest surprised blink before he schooled his face into an expression of indifference.

 

At the time he’d been a man she barely knew, who had somehow managed to scam his way out of the FBI’s blacksite and into a lavish hotel room. Almost nothing had passed between them aside from his disconcerting knowledge about her background and the uncomfortable way he had of acting as though this was all a huge joke – one she suspected might be at her expense.

 

She hadn’t yet stabbed him in the neck with a pen. He hadn’t yet saved her life. He hadn’t placed his hand, lightly, _just so_ , on her arm, the small of her back, her shoulder, her hair.

 

And so she narrowed her eyes at him and asked, “Wait, where did you even - are those _stolen_?”

 

His eyes widened with exaggerated innocence, his chuckle was long and amused. “Stolen? _Really_ , Lizzie, what do you take me for?” He held the pearls between his hands for a moment, rubbing one with his thumb. “Although _,_ I did recently acquire a beautiful ruby necklace through less than legal means. It’s supposedly worth a fortune, but the gem was so big I felt like it would drag down any poor woman who tried to wear it. It was being kept by-“

 

“Reddington,” she snapped, annoyed at the way he wandered away from the point. “I came here about the case. Since you have nothing to say about it, I’m going home.”

 

That was his first attempt, though she hadn’t realised it then. At the time, he’d carefully laid the pearls back in their case as she left, and hadn’t mentioned them again.

 

\-------------------------

 

The ice cream had come on a sunny day in the park. She was so disarmed to look down and see him with bare feet, perfectly tailored slacks rolled up around his calves, that when he thrust a set of four cones at her and said “Take one, _take one_ before I drop them all,” she automatically reached out and relieved him off the nearest.

 

He juggled them for another few seconds, handing the extras to Dembe and Luli, before licking up the side of his own with a broad swipe of his tongue, the image somehow almost obscene. As was the noise that he made when he did it.

 

Uncomfortable, she glanced away. Luli was eating her cone with immaculate grace, as though she were at a five star restaurant being served finger food as a fascinating cultural exercise. Dembe was tearing into his like a ten year old.

 

Another glance at Reddington showed him savouring it with hedonistic, sensual pleasure, at which point she huffed and looked out over the park.

 

“You called me here,” she said, a little short. “Who’s the next name on the list?”

 

He paused, and licked his lips. “Learn to live a little _, Agent Keen_. It’s a gorgeous day-“ he waved his free arm at their surroundings “-the sun is shining, the birds are singing. _Enjoy_ it. Would you rather be shut up twenty feet underground in your office?” He licked another stripe up the side of his ice cream, and then added, “Also, Lizzie, your ice cream is melting.”

 

The cold, sticky trickle on her fingers finally registered, and she looked down to find rivulets of melted vanilla ice cream pooling over the tops of her fingers where they held the cone. She glanced back up, stupidly embarrassed - wanting to be angry, wanting to swear - and found him directing a soft smile at her which stoppered the words in her mouth.

 

Luli’s smirk, seen out of the corner of her eye, was less kind.

 

“Here, I’ll get you a napkin,” he murmured, and turned to go back to the cart, Dembe an ever faithful shadow at his heels.

 

Liz wasn’t really sure how she could make the situation any worse, so she licked a circle around the outside of the cone, stopping the remaining ice cream from dripping down. Then she switched hands and brought her sticky one up to her lips, casually cleaning off one finger at a time as though she was still a carefree child and didn’t have Luli sitting there silently judging her.

 

When she looked up again, Reddington was standing ten feet away and staring at her boldly, as though she was doing something absolutely fascinating. At her arched brow, he started moving towards her again, and held out the napkin in front of him like a peace offering.

 

“One of the hazards of ice cream,” he offered as she rubbed the tissue between her fingers, wishing she could wash them instead.

 

She hesitated, because every sensible and trained instinct she had told her not to engage with him, but then said, “It’s my first this year.” Another mouthful, and she’d always loved soft-serve ice cream from ice cream trucks. It even had chocolate sprinkles on it.

 

None of the others had had chocolate sprinkles.

 

“Like I said, Lizzie, live a little,” Reddington murmured. Handing her the napkin had given him the excuse to stand close beside her, well inside her personal space again, but she felt like shifting away would hand him a victory of some sort. She didn’t like letting him know that he made her uncomfortable.

 

Reddington told stories to Luli and Dembe while she finished her cone in silence, taking her time. It seemed pointless to press him about the real reason they were there, clearly he was in no mood to share yet and would probably delay further just to be contrary.

 

Sometimes she didn’t understand him at all; she was getting better at predicting his actions but not the reasoning behind them.

 

He’d asked her to tell him his profile, and she had, to some degree. There were things she hadn’t said, so as not to alienate him or puff up his ego, and also because people didn’t like feeling like they were transparent. Giving someone a true, blunt profile of themselves was rarely something they actually wanted to hear, given that most people were experts in self-denial.

 

She’d given Reddington just enough to hopefully make him respect her abilities, but not enough to truly threaten him or make him retreat.

 

But there were also things she hadn’t said because she hadn’t known them, and day by day the list of ways in which she didn’t understand him grew ever longer.

 

“Thank you,” she said quietly as she finished the wafer of the cone, and his eyes shone brilliantly as he grinned at her.


	2. Office Supplies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three things Red got her for her office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline pitches around a bit for this one, but all in early series 1. Thanks to everyone for the lovely comments!

1.

For a while it was smaller things, not like the pearl necklace, the expensive perfume and the extravagantly wrapped gift box which she had all incredulously refused, point blank, in the first few weeks of their acquaintance.

 

No, it was that ice cream, and pastries, and insisting she meet with him over breakfast or lunch or coffee or dinner so that she just _had_ to try this delicacy or that wine or listen to this completely unknown but utterly moving jazz artist for a few more minutes.

 

It was bringing an extra cup of coffee when he saw her, whether it was in her office or meeting on a park bench.

 

Coffee had always been a secret indulgence for her. In her last job, and during FBI training, the onsite filter coffee had been absolutely dire. She’d adapted. Learned to suppress the instinctive wince and instead drink it so hot that it scalded her tongue, to appreciate the effect and almost not taste it at all. The Post Office wasn’t any better.

 

Her dad had been the one to get her hooked on good coffee. Sam had always had a supply around the house as she grew up, though his source had been a secret. Even so, the coffee she used to share with him - the small bag of it she still had stashed in a cupboard at her home - didn’t compare to the coffee which _Red_ brought her.

 

The first few were in paper take-away cups with plastic lids, the coffee rich and black and undoubtedly ridiculously expensive. She sometimes wondered where he’d found it; you would never get this in a normal coffee shop.

 

Number one was after she got into the car with him to discuss a blacklister, sliding along smooth, warm leather seats. Before she had the chance to say anything at all, a cup was waved in front of her. The tantalising scent of it was accompanied by “Dembe changed his mind. If you don’t drink it it will go to waste, and that would be a _tragedy_.”

 

The second, in front of everyone in the hub at the blacksite as he strode in - after they’d been waiting on him for half an hour. “I know you wouldn’t normally, Lizzie, but I just tried this exquisite Jamaican blend for the first time and couldn’t not get you one.”

 

The third time he just placed it in front of her on her desk. She glanced up in weary surprise, so tired she’d barely registered the door opening, and her gaze flicked between his knowing half-smile and the cup on her desk. She could have protested – really, she should have – but just the smell of it made her brain feel less sluggish and the first taste was like heaven.

 

The fourth time he brought a flask, and set a real mug down on her desk. It wasn’t expensive looking, nor particularly elegant. Just a plain white mug with a few Chinese symbols handpainted on the side, and a small chip on the rim. He’d poured coffee into it without a word, and she’d reached for it a minute later as they started talking about the case, as though it had been there all along. As though it wasn’t from him at all.

 

Afterwards, she painstakingly washed the mug in the small kitchen at the Post-Office and left it on the corner of her desk. She’d expected him to take it away with him the next time he dropped by – a week later – because it clearly belonged to someone.

 

Instead he just filled it up again.

 

When the other shoe dropped, as she’d been waiting for it to - when Tom pointed out Grey on the board, and she realised that Red had set him up, had set _her_ up - the mug was one of the first casualties the next morning. She swept it deliberately off her desk with an outflung arm, and almost screamed with frustration when it bounced gently off the carpet.

 

Picking it up and hurling it at the wall had the desired effect, however.

 

No one came in to investigate the noise. After half an hour she dragged herself away from her paperwork and gathered up the shards from the floor, annoyed at how far they’d spread and how deeply they’d become embedded into the carpet. There were probably all sorts of parallels to be drawn there.

 

She grew careless, sweeping her hands over the floor in irritated haste. A sliver of porcelain dug into her palm, right next to her scar, and she hissed and brought her hand up in front of her. Bright red blood welled up in the lines of her skin and streaked down onto the old and blistered mark. The red stain grew, and a drop beaded and threatened to fall.

 

She brushed the shard of mug aside, and put her mouth to her palm, sealing her lips over the cut until it stopped bleeding.

 

And even though she was so, _so_ angry with him about Tom, Red still brought the familiar silver flask with him the next time he visited. He also brought a new mug, and she felt a bright flare of hate at the fact he’d predicted her so well. Or that he had someone spying on her office.

 

The mug was bright yellow, with Tweety Pie winking out at her from one side, the handle pleasingly rounded and asking to be held.

 

She ignored it. She ignored _him_ , and the coffee that he poured into it, even though the smell made her nose twitch with poorly concealed desire.

 

And, even though she wouldn’t acknowledge his presence there, setting her mouth in a stubborn line and her eyebrows in a fierce glare, once he had left the room her hands came to cradle the cup. To raise it to her face and inhale the wonderful aroma of his choice of the day.

 

She drank it, even though it felt like a betrayal of Tom, even though she thought Red was just trying to manipulate her by any means possible.

 

She didn’t like to think too much about why.

 

\--------------

2.

They met Red’s contact at the travelling fair. It was a chilly, overcast day in fall, and Liz had been eyeing the clouds for the last half an hour as they threatened rain. Red, however, was acting as though they were strolling along in balmy sunshine, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and sunglasses firmly on his face.

 

“Some of the best criminal deals have been made at fairgrounds, Lizzie,” he said expansively as they wondered past the deserted shooting stall. “It all looks so innocent; the funnel cake, the lights, the giant soft toys for young men to win for their girls.” His voice dropped lower. “It’s a breeding ground for crime, of course, but the really _obvious_ sort of crime; petty theft, small time drugs. No one looks for the big fish here, which is what makes it absolutely perfect!”

 

There had been a stack of paperwork a foot deep on her desk that morning – courtesy of their last outing – and though she was a little grateful for the reprieve she knew it would still be there when they got back. And in the meantime she was squelching through mud in heels which fought her at every step. All she needed was to fall over and land on her ass in the mud; he wouldn’t stop laughing for a _year_.

 

“Your contact’s late,” was Liz’s only comment.

 

“Don’t be such a sour puss – enjoy the ambiance!”

 

The space was mostly deserted, it being just past noon on a Monday, still covered in discarded food wrappers and plastic cups from the night before, and the few attractions just starting up made sporadic outbursts of overly loud garish fairground music which made her wince.

 

The air was damp, and the puddles plentiful.

 

“Oh yes,” she said with a tight, sarcastic smile. “The ambiance.”

 

He really could make himself at home anywhere, she thought. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen evidence of it before, but seeing him stroll along as though he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world…

 

“You actually like it here,” she said, realisation slowly dawning. “With all the tacky stalls and terrible food.”

 

He cast a glance at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You make it sound like you never enjoyed going to the fair when you were little, Lizzie. And I _know_ that’s not true.”

 

“How-“ she bit down on her remaining words and glanced aside. Her hand had formed an involuntary fist, and she slowly relaxed it again.

 

“Every child enjoys the fair, Lizzie.” His smile was bland, but that wasn’t what he had been implying, they both knew it. It infuriated her that he kept dangling these hints of _knowing_ her, of knowing her past, in front of her and then pretending to be remorseful he couldn’t tell her more.

 

Perhaps seeing the growing cloud on her face, he added, “It reminds me of happier times.”

 

She searched his face, the quiet and serious tone of his voice reaching her where all his clever chicanery did nothing but push her away. There was the shadow of a real person under all of his charade, and the glimpses of him always came at such unexpected times.

 

In return she nodded. “You’re right. I did use to like the fair. I haven’t been in a couple of years though. Tom and I went to one in Nebraska, when we went to visit my dad.”

 

The lines around Red’s eyes tightened slightly when she mentioned Tom, and Liz regretted it instantly. She didn’t want another oblique and unhelpful warning about her husband.

 

“So, we’re here…” She deliberately left the sentence hanging, and turned on her heel in a slow circle, with a slight wave of her right hand. Her shoe unhelpfully dug into the soft ground.  

 

“Well, you didn’t want to come with me to that exquisite restaurant at The Jefferson, Lizzie.” Red’s voice was light, and his eyes warmed again.

 

She snorted. “Because on my pay I’d-“

 

“And now you say we never go anywhere nice,” he interrupted. “Honestly, there’s no pleasing you, is there?” His tone was now slightly over the top, his gestures exaggerated. Not that he wouldn’t act like this for his own entertainment, but…

 

“He’s here, isn’t he?” she asked, lips barely moving. And then, louder, “All I wanted was dinner in a nice, normal restaurant. And you bring me here! I’ll probably have to get my shoes dry cleaned after we leave.”

 

She was gifted with a genuine smile, appreciation for going along with him. She had no idea if it was necessary, but with the trouble Red seemed to attract it was usually better to err on the side of caution.

 

“Look,” he said, as though trying to divert her wrath, “the rubber duck stand just opened. You’ll love that, you know you will.”

 

With a somewhat mulish look on her face, which didn’t take much additional effort, Liz allowed herself to be dragged over trampled, muddy ground towards a circular stand which had been unmanned a few minutes before. A round pool in the middle of it was midway to being populated by a large tribe of yellow plastic ducks, which a man in broad red pinstripe was pouring out of a bag.

 

“Give me just a minute,” he said without looking up, and she took the opportunity to subtly slide her phone out of her pocket and text ‘made contact,’ to Ressler and Meera. Red had, of course, said no to the two of them being wired while making the deal.

 

“I used to love these when I was a child,” Red confided while she typed with her thumb and slipped the phone back into her jeans. “We used to have competitions, myself and the other children in my neighbourhood. When I was nine we stole all of the ducks from the local fairground and set them loose in the stream behind our houses, and everyone picked a number on a duck. Then we ran a mile downstream and waited to see which duck would make it first.”

 

The man at the stall glanced up. He had non-descript features and dark brown hair, middling height – the kind of person it was a nightmare to have a witness try and describe. Red gave him a wide smile. “That was, of course, many years ago, and you can rest assured we were all thoroughly chastised.”

 

“You want a go? Five bucks for two tries. Numbers ending in a five get a prize from the bottom tier; numbers ending in zero win a big prize.” A duck was fished out to flash the number on the bottom of it as a demonstration, and then the man gestured at the prizes lining the side of the stall – toys and bouncy balls and plastic masks in the shape of superheroes.

 

Liz looked at Red, waiting for him to make the deal. He slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked at her over the top of them. “Why doesn’t Lizzie go first?” he suggested brightly, and she resisted the urge to hit him. “She never has time to just get outside and have fun anymore,” he added as an aside to the fair worker.

 

A long wooden pole with a hook on the end of it was thrust in her direction as Red handed over the money, and the small, murderous glare she would have directed at him bounced harmlessly aside as he pushed his glasses back into place and rocked back onto his heels, humming.

 

Instead she gave a quick smile to the man running the stall, and started aiming her hook roughly in the direction of the ducks, taking her time about it. After a swing and an obvious miss, she grumbled, “This is a kids game. I feel stupid.”  

 

“Honestly, Lizzie, you really need to improve your hand-eye coordination.” It was actually taking a lot of effort to miss the ducks, they weren’t moving around very much. “Victor here – may I call you Victor?” A quick glance showed the name written on his badge. “Victor must see a lot of poor attempts, but your technique is really quite abysmal.”

 

The man, ‘Victor,’ snorted, and said, “Most blokes are more tactful.”

 

“Ah, well, for Lizzie tactful is another word for lying.”

 

She darted an icy glare at him under her eyelashes and then thrust the stick blindly in his direction as she looked away again. “You have a go then.”

 

“Now, now.” And suddenly he was in close, too close, his voice right in her ear as his hand closed around the pole next to hers. “There’s no point in giving up right away. There’s no time limit, we can stay all afternoon if you want. I’ll wait until you fish every duck out of that pond.”

 

A feather light pressure at the small of her back firmed into the shape of his hand resting there.

 

“I’m fine,” she ground out.

 

“Humour me, Lizzie, try again.”

 

Just to get rid of him she immediately hooked the duck right in the centre of the pool of water, drawing it out with a sparkle of falling droplets.

 

Red pulled back, which she counted as a win. “See,” he drawled smoothly, “you just needed a bit of direction.” Having to put up with his smug mock-condescension was, however, the opposite of winning.

 

“Are you going to have a go or not?” she snapped, pretending to be irked. Actually, not really pretending. She’d decided her cover was friend/partner/lover that was seriously aggravated with him because he kept acting in a superior and high-handed manner.

 

He held up his hands as though surrendering. “Now she’s angry because she caught one,” he said to the man. Turning back to her, “Anyway, did you win anything?”

 

Reluctantly she pulled over her duck and looked at the bottom of it. 27. “Nope.”

 

“Ah well. Perhaps I need a better pole, Victor.” A slim white envelope was pulled out of his inside jacket pocket and handed to the man, who made it seemingly disappear with a casual, careless motion. Liz recognised the trick from her own days of sleight of hand.

 

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Victor said, his voice now oily and smooth.

 

“Excellent. You see, Lizzie, it’s all about the quality of your equipment.”

 

Liz gave him a quick, hard look, and clamped her lips together to prevent her instinctive reply. Because,  _really_?

 

After a moment Red gestured again, and when Victor realised he actually did want another pole the man held out the bundle of them from behind the counter. As far as Liz knew, this had nothing to do with the deal, which had ended with the transfer and the man’s acceptance – this was just Red being pedantic.

 

New rod duly selected, he went about choosing his duck. “Which one do you think, Lizzie?”

 

“They all look the same to me,” she replied, affecting a bored tone.

 

He huffed a laugh. “Sacrilege in the world of rubber ducks, my dear. Do you know I won that duck race down the stream two years in a row? And it was because I developed a certain eye for-“ he neatly hooked a duck, and brought it in, “-which one would be the winner. There, now.”

 

His grin was too ridiculous not to smile back at, and he proudly showed her the number 10 on his duck.

 

“Any of the prizes hanging from the side poles, except for the biggest toys at the top. You need to win twice for those.”

 

“Hmm,” Red perused the prizes for a moment. “This one, I think.”

 

Lizzie’s laugh was cut abruptly short when he placed the bag in her arms. “What? _Red!_ ”

 

“He looks like an Archibald to me,” Red said blithely.

 

“What am I supposed to do with a  _goldfish_?”

 

“It will brighten up your office immensely. And Donald needs someone of his own mental level to talk to now and then.”

 

\------------------

 3.

“What’s that?”

 

Red dropped his hat on her desk, and planted himself in the chair opposite. He looked down at the clear box she was indicating, and cleared his throat. “It’s a pen, Lizzie. Honestly, what  _are_  they teaching people at the FBI academy these days?”

 

The case looked expensive, the kind of expensive that was so classy it didn’t even need a logo. The pen itself was metal, sleek, and  _red_.

 

“I can see that it’s a pen,” she began, exasperated, “but why is it on my desk?”

 

“The laws of probability make it just as likely for this pen to be on your desk as anywhere else,” Red answered glibly, then tilted his head in response to her raised eyebrow. “You need a new one. You’ve chewed through the tops of the last three – nasty, cheap plastic things that they stock here. You’ll end up getting ink all over yourself.”

 

Liz felt her cheeks flush slightly, since she’d ended up with black smeared fingers only the week before. Tom had laughed helplessly over the marks she’d accidentally left on her blouse. It had been a nice moment, with her trying to touch her inked fingers to his face and him half-flailing to fight her off.

 

Then she’d wondered if he was secretly better at hand to hand than she was, if he could have taken her in a second if he’d been trying. She’d wondered if the reason his own clothing never had a single mark on it was because he was trained to be careful.

 

Half an hour of scrubbing in the sink at work, and again at home, hadn’t been enough to get the ink out. It had stayed for at least a day.

 

“I can get my own pens, Red. If I think I need a new pen, I’ll buy a pen.”

 

He leaned forward in his chair. “I promised to test this for a friend of mine. Alright, a _colleague_ ,” he said to her look. “It’s a new model. This pen writes underwater, and in space, and in extreme temperatures. And it  _never runs out of ink_ ,” he added when he saw her frown.

 

“I-“ she paused, and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You made that last part up.”

 

He blinked long, golden lashes at her.

 

“That’s from Harry Potter or something,” she said, gaining certainty.  

 

“Harry who? Never mind. Perhaps I was exaggerating slightly, but it’s scientifically proven that the ink will last for longer than you could possibly use it.”

 

“Why would I need a pen like this?”

 

“Why _not_ , Lizzie?”

 

“Because I’m not going to space, or to the arctic, or whatever else you said – I’m not going to go swimming with it!”

 

“Life’s happenings are impossible to predict.”

 

She stared at him, and he stared back, deadpan. “That was in your fortune cookie on Friday.” They’d had take-out, sitting on the bumper of his car, bloody and dusty and _alive_.

 

“Which doesn’t make it any less true,” he insisted pleasantly.

 

The pen lay on the desk before her, and she felt the irrational urge to touch it, to take it out and play with it. It didn’t look like the sort of pen an FBI agent would have, not unless they were undercover. It was the kind of pen James Bond would have.

 

She sighed.

 

“What else does it have, Red?” At his puzzled look, “Does it also have a tracking chip? Is it bugged, so that you can hear everything I say?”

 

He eased back into the chair and regarded her through half-lidded eyes. “Now, Lizzie, would I-“

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

The swiftness of her response seemed to surprise him, and he worked his jaw for a moment, mouth still open, before subsiding. “ _Touché_. Rest assured then that this does not contain any transmitters, any bugs, nothing you would not find inside an exquisitely crafted pen.” At her still doubtful look, “It’s just a nice pen, Lizzie.”

 

The softness of his voice, the slight disappointment in it, almost made her regret her response. After considering him for another moment, she carefully opened the glass case the pen rested in. The pen itself, when she drew it out, had a pleasing weight in her hand and fit her grip perfectly. It was cool and smooth, and the blood red casing gleamed in the light of the office.

 

 _Iron Man_  would have a pen like this, she thought slightly hysterically.

 

With an emotion that absolutely _wasn’t_ regret, she placed it back in the box and shut the lid again.

 

“Amazingly, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to accept things from criminals on the FBI’s most wanted list.”

 

“I thought I was an informant now. I’m _informing_ you that this pen will improve your work habits significantly. It’s very-” he seemed to search for an appropriately convincing word, “-ergonomic.”

 

The corner of her mouth twitched, somewhere between amusement and annoyance, and she brushed her hair out of her face to try and cover the lapse.

 

“No,” she said firmly, finally.

 

“No?” He picked up his hat, and brought it up to tap the rim against his lips. “Ah, well then, I suppose I’ll have to tell Harold that all the work the techs went through clearing it was for nothing.”

 

Her head jerked up, she stared at him suspiciously. “You cleared this with _Cooper?_ ”

 

What on earth had he said? ‘ _I really think that Agent Keen needs a new pen, here’s one worth thousands of dollars_.’ Or, ‘ _Here, I’ve found a new spy gadget for your agents to try out; it’ll be great for scuba diving missions_.’

 

“Of course, Lizzie.” Red glanced out of her office window and waved in the direction of Cooper’s office. Liz had no idea if Cooper was actually there or Red was just doing it to wind her up. “But since you’re disinclined to accept it, I suppose I shall have to find another recipient. Perhaps Agent Malik. Now _there’s_ a woman that might appreciate a pen which can-“

 

The case was only a few inches away from her hand, and her fingers shot out to grab it just as he reached across the table.

 

“No,” she said again, this time with the opposite meaning to before, and a satisfied smile curled across his face. “I’m confiscating it,” she added hastily. “Until I can confirm it checks out.”

 

He chuckled lightly. “Of course. Isn’t it nice when everyone is so security conscious? I’ll just leave you to it then, do make sure you test it out thoroughly yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps. Is there any consensus on whether it’s Lizzie or Lizzy?


	3. Souvenirs Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after 1x11 The Good Samaritan, when Red returns after Garrick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a two-parter, because I'm not happy with the next section yet so I'm splitting it. This is an alternate ending to the episode when Red shows up at Lizzie's house and is all 'My house is clean but yours isn't.' (She smiles at him and invites him to sit down and everything! Yay progress!) She actually asks him if he brought her anything. It's canon that he buys her things *nods*

“Did you bring me anything?” she asked.

 

However teasing her intention, her words came out warm and lilting; as though she really did expect him to have brought her something. She faltered, on the brink of taking it back - demurring and saying she was only joking - but she’d surprised a sharp laugh out of him, and his voice had already said “ _Yes_.”

 

His tone was too grave, his face too sombre for her to make light of the moment, and she bit back her next words. They would have seemed trite, somehow. His eyes, dark and watchful, fixed on her, and the smile gradually faded from her face under his assessment.

 

He didn’t say what he’d brought her, and she didn’t ask. The silence dragged on, and she fought not to look away.

 

Finally she felt she had to say something. “I-“

 

“Have I interrupted anything this evening?”

 

She shook her head, and glanced around the room automatically. “No, I…“ The meaning of his question penetrated. Reddington didn’t ask if he’d interrupted because he ever cared whether or not he had. That wasn’t what he was asking. He was asking if she wanted him to leave. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she finished.

 

He nodded, seemingly satisfied.

 

“Are you alright?” she asked hesitantly, as she’d wanted to when he first called her, and then, guiltily, thinking of the blood on the floor of the warehouse, of the metal hook suspended from the ceiling, “We didn’t find you in time. We tried to-” Her voice cracked slightly, and Red gave a brief wave of his hand and glanced away.

 

“Yes, Dembe said.” His thumb and forefinger came up to rub across his brow. There was nothing further, and she could see the moment when his thoughts sunk inwards again.

 

This was Red as she had never seen him, ground down and too tired and grieved to put any extra effort into the conversation.

 

“I – are you hurt?”

 

His eyes flicked up to meet hers again at that, and they looked old and worn. “I’m fine now,” he said.

 

It had been two weeks. Two very long weeks.

 

“But you were,” she said softly.

 

He regarded her in silence for a moment, which was answer enough.

 

“I’m sorry.” Her voice so low she wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hear it, but he leaned forward on his elbows and managed to summon a concerned look in response.

 

“You have _nothing_ to be sorry for, Lizzie.” His eyes held hers firmly, until she gave the slightest nod of her head. “No,” he continued, pensive, “I’d grown complacent. This was my fault.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” she said stridently. “It was Garrick’s fault. It was the fault of whoever betrayed us.” She paused, and took in his impassive expression. “He…  said something to me, before he put me in the van.”

 

Red’s eyes snapped to hers, suddenly alert. “What did he say?”

 

That he would torture her. That he would make her scream. “He said that this job was like a gift, being paid to kill someone he would have done for free.” Her eyes scanned his face, found what she was looking for. “He was working for someone else, wasn’t he? Do you know who did this? Not who the mole is, but who wanted you taken?” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Red, do you know who-“

 

“Some of it,” he replied. “Not all of it. Not yet. Did you tell your friends at the FBI about this?”

 

She shook her head, brow furrowed. “I didn’t know who I could trust.”

 

“A wise decision. Let’s keep it between us for the moment.”

 

He went quiet again, looking down and running his hand over his trouser leg, brushing away imaginary lint.

 

The usual deep well of questions sat inside Liz, each one of them guaranteed to drive him away. Who had done this? Where _had_ Red been? Why was her life worth so much to him? How had he got away from Garrick? 

 

Why was he here now?

 

“Why are you here, Red?”

 

The shadows on his face outlined the tired attempt at a smile. “Is it so much to ask that I came to see a friend, Lizzie?”

 

She’d once accused him of not having anyone. He’d said he had her.

 

“No,” she said more quietly.

 

It felt slightly surreal, having him sit on her cream sofa, when not two days ago she’d wondered if she’d ever see him again; if he’d disappeared completely. Sam’s training belatedly kicked in – how to treat a guest – and she asked, “Can I get you some tea?”

 

The skin around his eyes relaxed a little, and he tipped his head in a yes.

 

In the kitchen she filled the kettle and pulled two mugs from the drying rack.

 

She remembered a visit to a safe house once, and Luli bringing him tea.

 

She remembered Luli’s blood, soaking into the knees of Liz’s trousers as Garrick had forced her down in front of the box. It had still been warm. Afterwards it had dried, tacky, making the fabric stick to her legs. Gradually flaking off in shavings of red.

 

The trousers had been her favourite pair, but she’d thrown them in the trash as soon as she’d been able to change. As soon as there were no more cameras in her home to watch her doing so.

 

She closed her eyes, and tried not to think about that.

 

It was only when she heard a noise at the entrance to the kitchen that she glanced up from the pose she’d assumed, both hands on the edge of the counter supporting her weight as she leaned forward on them.

 

Red’s gaze was measuring, solemn.

 

“You’ve been a while,” was the only thing he said. Her fingers found the kettle hot with a brief touch, and she flicked the switch to bring it back to the boil again. She hadn’t even heard it.

 

“I got distracted,” she muttered, and fished out a couple of tea bags.

 

“I don’t suppose you have lemon?”

 

He took a few steps into the kitchen, and _this_ suddenly felt intimate in a way that him entering her house without an invitation hadn’t. He’d taken off his coat, and as she watched he reached up to loosen his tie. “Really, Lizzie, what’s the point of having a fruit bowl when all you have in it are two oranges?”

 

The question brought a sad smile to her face; he sounded a little more like himself. “Try the fridge.”

 

They stayed in the kitchen rather than go back out to the living room, both leaning back on the counter next to each other as they sipped their too-hot tea. Red pulled a face – undoubtedly it wasn’t up to his usual standards – but kept drinking. He was close enough beside her that his left arm pressed lightly against her right one, and she felt no inclination to move. She felt more solid, somehow, with him there.

 

When she felt her nerves had steadied a bit, she cleared her throat. “So, what _did_ you get me?” she asked, trying hard to inject a lighter note into her voice again.

 

He chuckled, but it was an echo of its usual richness, and her smile died before it formed. “Oh, Lizzie,” he said, and the undisguised fondness in it made her blink away unexpected tears.

 

The cup was placed to the side of him, and he dropped his arms so that his elbow brushed against hers. He _leaned_ , ever so slightly, and she straightened a little to take the added weight.

 

“What did I get you?” he murmured. “A pile of bodies, a list of them. More stains on my soul, and more friends lost.”

 

They stood for a moment without saying anything, breaths rasping in and out. Her heart ached, and she took a quick gulp of tea to burn her tongue on it as though that could redirect the pain.

 

“And this.” A small envelope was drawn out of his pocket, and he held it between both hands, looking down at it as though it held the answers to all of life’s mysteries. After a moment, he proffered it towards her. Her fingers had barely grazed it before it was withdrawn. “Quid pro quo, Lizzie,” he murmured. “Tell me about Tom.”

 

A faded stain on the linoleum was suddenly fascinating as her nails bit into the palm of her free hand. “What about Tom?”

 

There was the slightest stir of breath against her hair as he turned his head to face her. She kept hers determinedly down, refusing to look at him.

 

She didn’t need this now. She’d been so _glad_ to see him.

 

“You obviously weren’t surprised when I told you he was at the airport. From what you said when I came in, you just as obviously didn’t want him to go.”

 

“Are we going to fight now?” she asked, her voice coming out small and faded.

 

“That’s certainly not my intention, Lizzie.” The weariness in his voice made her nod acceptance. “You were honest with me about him once before.”

 

“It’s not that…” she trailed off, restarted with difficulty. “It just always ends up being the same conversation.” She brought her mug up, cupped between both hands now, and buried her face in the steam rising from it.

 

“And it’s not what you want to hear,” he confirmed, his voice bleak but understanding. “Very well. What if tonight I didn’t say anything, but only listened?”

 

She darted a quick glance at his face; he seemed sincere.

 

“I – he’s…” She stopped, and blew out a quick, frustrated breath. “If I tell you-”

 

He gave her a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t use anything you say against you, Lizzie.”

 

She nodded, looking back down to the floor, and didn’t realise her hair had fallen in a curtain around her face until an incredibly light touch swept it back behind her ear. Another stolen glance showed his full attention fixed on her. “Tell me,” he said.

 

“He’s been… It’s been difficult lately. With my job, and me getting injured a lot. With the cameras in the house,” her voice broke slightly, “and the surveillance team outisde. The phone call from Garrick. And me _accusing_ him of…”

 

She waited a moment, but Red stayed silent. “He - he said he wanted me to stop. Stop my job. To move somewhere else, anywhere else. And the thing is,” her voice rose, “it makes sense. I should want that too, to get away from all of this. This wasn’t what I wanted to do, Red, and I don’t,“ she paused to smudge away tears she hadn’t noticed falling, “I don’t even know why I’m still doing it. But when he said it, I just felt… I felt like…”

 

She looked up at Red, his face slightly hazy through the shine of her own tears, and saw his mouth working as he fought not to say anything. Saw the deep crease of distress on his forehead, and realised it was for her. She took a minute to get her breathing under control, to thrust the mug aside and pace across the kitchen. She halted, facing away from him.

 

“I feel like he’s trying to take away my choices,” she confessed in a wavering voice, and the words felt liberating and condemning all at once. And it was worse, far worse because she was telling them to _Red_ , who would take them and run a hundred miles with them. “I know that’s not true. I know he’s just worried about me, just being a good husband.”

 

 _A good husband would support you_ , he didn’t say, but she heard the words nonetheless. The ever present, _Tom’s not who you think he is._ And finally, _You deserve better, Lizzie._

 

“I know,” she choked out. “But he’s _always_ supported me. There are limits though. Maybe after him being stabbed, and his wife turning into some kind of secret agent he doesn’t even recognise anymore, he’s reached them.”

 

“ _Lizzie_ ,” Red said, and his voice came from right behind her, curling and deep. A sob loosed from her throat before she could swallow it down.

 

Warm fingers came to rest gently on her shoulder, the pads pressing lightly against the fabric of her jacket. After a few seconds they swept across her collarbone and then back again. A broad hand cupped her other shoulder; even though those hands were the only points of contact between the two of them, she felt enclosed by him, safe _._

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” she said, voice slightly hoarse, because she didn’t deserve to be comforted, not about this.

 

He hummed quietly, and she could practically feel the vibration of it travel down his arms and into her through the contact on her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, and her shuddering breath finally came under control again, enough to offer a stiff nod.

 

“As to what I brought you, I’m afraid you’ll think me…”

 

She turned in response to his trailed off words, his hands drifting quietly from her shoulders as though they had never been there at all. His tongue was pressed against the inside of his cheek, his gaze turned inwards.

 

Her cheeks were still wet; his eyes refocused on her as she carefully swiped at them with the edge of her hand to remove the traces of tears. His lips pressed together for a moment, and his hand came up halfway between them in an involuntary gesture before dropping again.

 

After a charged moment he continued in a roughened voice. “I’m afraid that my gift is terribly self-serving. I didn’t have the time to pick you up any souvenirs this time. This is something I arranged for you some time ago. Luli-“ and his voice turned pained, a tic appearing briefly in his cheek “-picked up the tickets. You could take someone else, of course, but I was hoping you would agree to accompany me.”

 

The plain envelope lay on the counter on the other side of the kitchen. Her eyes travelled to it, and then back to his face, awaiting an explanation. “A concert,” he clarified. “I’m told the first violinist is supposed to be…” He stopped and cleared his throat. Started again. “I find myself in need of a distraction. To remind myself-“ he picked his words carefully “-that there is still something beautiful in the world.”

 

He looked at her then, earnest and open and so completely himself, and asked, “Will you come with me, Lizzie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just kind of grew out of nowhere. He was going to hand her something small and tacky and it was going to be light and cute. But then I was rewatching the episode, and Red is not in a happy place. He wouldn't have stopped his revenge rampage to pick up anything for Lizzie no matter how much he adores her.
> 
> I have no idea how much time passed post Anslo Garrick before Red got in touch about the samaritan case, but I'm assuming he needed a few days to recover and find information and then went around on said rampage fairly quickly - so two weeks is a random estimate, possibly even too long of one.
> 
> This one was particularly stubborn, and had to be rewritten a thousand times.


	4. Souvenirs Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days after their last encounter, Red tries to give Lizzie something else. Post Anslo Garrick.

They’d returned to Red’s safe house after the concert; one she wasn’t familiar with yet. Earlier in the evening he’d told her that all of his prior spots were now considered compromised. Liz sometimes wondered if he had access to a never-ending supply of places to go, and how he chose which one would be next. She wasn’t the only one – there was a two man team at the Post Office dedicated to figuring out the same thing; trying to predict Reddington’s next move. So far they hadn’t been right once, not least because they didn’t know of the existence of most of these places or the extent of Red’s connections.

 

She hadn’t told anyone at the Post Office that she was spending her off hours with Red this evening. No one would have understood; Liz barely understood her reasoning herself. She could justify it, of course, say that it was important to build the relationship with Reddington at the moment. After all, she was the only one he was excluding from the blanket of blame he was draping over the FBI and their supposed mole.

 

_Why_ he trusted her was another thing entirely. He shouldn’t. She should have told work the moment he gave her to the invitation to the concert, should have sent the team the address of this safe house immediately upon learning it. That was her job. The task force currently still revolved around finding him and bringing him in, but she hadn’t even told them he’d been at her house the other day. If they knew that she was meeting Red off-piste, as it were, it would bring back all of the long looks over ‘ _Why did he choose you?_ ’ and ‘ _Isn’t it convenient that the gun in a box in your house was used in a murder._ ’

 

But, if she’d given them the address, would she have arrived here earlier in the evening to find blood and bodies and Red gone?

 

He led her through to the study, moving immediately to open a window and throwing out a quick “Wait a moment,” when she raised her hand to the light switch by the door. A moments struggle with the latch, and then the lace curtains wafted lazily around him as a breeze brushed into the room.

 

They stayed like that for a minute; him staring out into the darkness, outlined by just enough light from the window to make the scene look like a black and white photograph, her trying to judge his mood – which had been gregarious and brooding by turns all evening.

 

Eventually he turned, moving to a large desk and groping under the shade of the darkened lamp there until he found the switch. A hospitable golden glow spilled out from it, making the room seem smaller and less intimidating than it had in the dark. Misshapen shadows resolved into antique, vibrant pieces of furniture which half looked as though they belonged in a museum. The only thing missing was clutter, and books to fill the empty shelves; for all its fine furniture the house seemed abandoned.

 

“Sad, isn’t it.” He’d been taking in the room as well. “A bit like an empty snail shell – so artfully constructed but the inhabitant long gone.”

 

“Who does it belong to?”

 

“An old friend who won’t be needing it anymore.” There was a certain finality to his tone which brought a grimace to her face.

 

He uncapped a decanter, pouring himself a drink which he left untouched on the sideboard while he slid a drawer open. She pondered her willingness to spend time with a man who casually implied killing his friends. Or at least some form of involvement in their deaths.

 

“Here,” he said, and she was pulled out of her thoughts by him raising something small and shining in his hand.

 

“What is it?”

 

He just twitched his fingers in a beckoning gesture, and she rolled her eyes and stepped forward. As she moved further into the room the breeze pleasantly cooled the skin under her jacket. She’d had to leave straight from work, and tried not to feel underdressed compared to the other concert goers. Red, of course, had treated her as though she was wearing a ball gown.

 

“Red, what-”

 

The intensity in his face caught at her as he reached for her hand and pressed something cool and metal into it. “Luli would have wanted you to have it,” he said, and she glanced down to find a simple, elegant silver bracelet.

 

She’d been too surprised to resist as he first deposited it in her palm, only on feeling the delicate weight of it coiled there did she try to thrust it back at him. “No. What are you – she didn’t even _like_ me,” she said, horrified. “This should go to her family.”

 

He made no move to take it back, so she pushed her cupped hand towards him again.

 

Red tucked his hands firmly in his pockets and studied her, head tilted to one side. His expression was meditative, almost serene. “Luli didn’t have any family,” he replied finally, “and I’ve ensured that her belongings went to those she loved.”

 

“But I-“

 

“Of course she _liked_ you, Lizzie.” Back came his usual, playful tone. “And what is this, kindergarten?”

 

_I wouldn’t know_ , burned on her lips and died unspoken. _Do you know if I went to kindergarten?_

 

The thought of asking Red just invoked an old, weary anger which she knew would lead nowhere tonight. He wouldn’t answer.

 

Her whole life was divided into segments; before and after the fire, before and after Sam, before and after Tom, before and after the FBI. And now, before and after Red.

 

Her palm was sweating where it was clutched around the bracelet; she only realised her hand had closed around it as she felt the impression of the chain on her skin. Loosening her grip, she sighed and looked to the side. There was a desk a few feet away made of dark wood with swirled roses cut into the sides; Liz let the bracelet slip from her palm on to the polished, worn surface.

 

“It’s beautiful, but I think that someone else should-“

 

Red shook his head dismissively before she finished the sentence, and retreated to reach for his tumbler. They stood in a silent tableau several feet apart for a moment before he shifted his jaw back and forth and took a sip, rolling the liquid around in his mouth. She watched the way his eyes closed, and the pleased hum he gave reverberated around the room.

 

“Would you like to try some, Lizzie?” he asked without opening his eyes, and she snatched her gaze away from his face.

 

“I have to drive back.”

 

“I can have someone drive you.”

 

“No, thank you,” she said, and her voice came out more than slightly exasperated.

 

His eyes slitted open, and he considered her for a moment. “A sip would hardly be enough to impair your judgement. I once drove a _wreck_ of a car along some incredibly winding mountain roads in Greece after almost a bottle of Ouzo. The brakes didn’t work half the time, and the road was sheer to the cliff. All that sparkling blue water along the coast,” he said, slightly dreamy in remembrance. “And it was so hot I was almost ready to steer into it just to cool off.”

 

He stared off into the distance for a moment, and then his eyes refocused and he tilted the glass towards her.

 

Shaking her head again, she tucked her chin slightly and crossed her arms. “I should go.”

 

“Admittedly, Luli was never one to be open with her emotions,” he said, picking up the earlier thread of conversation without warning. “Or to allow anyone overly close.” The liquid in the glass shone as he brought it to his lips again. “And she did dislike a lot of people. Or rather, not find them worth her notice. No,” he said thoughtfully after a moment, correcting himself. “It was two separate categories. Donald, for example, she actively disliked – though I wasn’t lying when I said she hated men. Meera she was indifferent to. But then I’ve always found that she-“

 

There was a pause, and Liz looked up to find him with his head turned slightly away from her, blinking rapidly.

 

The relationship between Red and Luli had always remained unlabelled. For a woman he declared hated men, she was certainly very friendly with him, but somehow their interactions had almost said comfort and familiarity to Liz rather than sex, even when Luli was wandering around in one of his shirts.

 

She had been important to him, though. Liz had watched the footage of her and Garrick, had seen the devastation on Red’s face. Heard it in his voice.

 

“Red, I-“

 

“But she liked you,” he continued, voice smooth as though he’d never stopped. “She thought you got me into a lot of trouble,” he chuckled, “but that’s only because she hadn’t been along for some of my more interesting trips in the past. She thought you had guts.” His eyes connected with hers again. “And passion. She respected that you would fight for the things you cared about. I’m sorry that you two didn’t have more,” he stopped to clear his throat awkwardly, and directed his gaze into his glass, “more time to know each other.”

 

The bracelet sat gleaming dully against the dark wood of the desk. The delicate links snaked together in a way that attracted the eye, and a small flat silver disk hung from it, stamped with two rounded characters. Vietnamese, perhaps. Liz couldn’t remember if she’d seen Luli wear it before, but she assumed it had some significance if Red had picked it out to give it to her.

 

A memory struck her suddenly, of waiting for Red while Tom was being interrogated at the blacksite. She’d been sat in the park by the pavilion, fingers returning to trace her scar over and over. It had seemed so long since she’d told a little girl that touching it made her feel safe. She hadn’t been sure that it did anymore, but couldn’t stop the habit nonetheless. A shadow had stopped in front of her and she’d jerked her head up, hoping and not hoping it was Red, and feeling her stomach fall on discovering it wasn’t. Luli had stood there instead, impeccably put together as usual. She’d handed Liz a cup from one of the vendors in the park then drifted off again – subtly checking the park for threats in preparation for Red’s arrival.

 

Liz had held the paper cup in her hands for a couple of minutes, feeling the searing warmth of it, before prying the lid off. Hot chocolate with whipped cream on top. A cautious sip had shown it to be rich and creamy, and the warmth of it had given her something to focus on beyond the churning despair in her stomach.

 

It had been a kind gesture, and one which she suspected the Luli had done of her own volition rather than on Red’s instruction. The thought of it now brought a sad smile to her lips.

 

Perhaps Liz didn’t feel like she’d known the other woman well, but Luli had risked her life for her before. Had died for Red.

 

Liz could honour her memory, could keep a token of her.

 

She scooped the thin chain back into her hand, fingering the fine links and small charm for a moment before slipping it into her trouser pocket.

 

“Okay,” she said simply, and the look of earnest gratitude and approval from Red stirred something warm in her.

 

Not more than a minute later he was smiles and puns and stories and crime, and she would have doubted seeing those moments of vulnerability, of mourning, had she not engraved them upon her memory.

 

The little silver chain sat disproportionately heavily in her pocket. Once he’d told her about the next blacklister, The Alchemist, and she’d left, she fastened the bracelet around her wrist, tucked it under her cuff, and found herself touching it absently from time to time for comfort in much the same way as she did her scar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am... not happy with this. But I've been contemplating it for a while now, and it doesn't want to change itself.


	5. Drinks, a Dress, and a Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three shorts set around 1x13, The Cyprus Adoption Agency and 1x14, Madeline Pratt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Post 1x13 the Cyprus Adoption Agency – after Liz tells Tom she can’t have a baby right now and Red kills Diane and loses the chance to find out what happened to his family  
> 2 & 3\. During 1x14, Madeline Pratt

1.

 

It was late when the front door swung open without the jingle of keys, when it clicked quietly shut again. She counted her breaths before she felt the presence in the doorway behind her.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

She must have made a picture, huddled limply on the floor between the cot and the stroller.

 

There was nowhere to hide.

 

“Get out,” she said dully, with no expectation of being obeyed. The lack of movement behind her was enough to trigger a spark, however, to reignite a will which had been punctured like a balloon by Tom’s accusing withdrawal earlier, and this time her voice was harsh, savage. “ _Get out of my house!_ ”

 

Still nothing, and for a dizzying moment she wondered if she had imagined hearing the door. Her breath sounded rasping, out of place in this hollow, empty space, and her heartbeat was a muffled drumbeat in her ears. Then there was the slightest rustle of fabric, and her eyes closed almost in relief.

 

Without further prompting her mind added images to the noises.  That was him taking his hat off, dusting the brim, placing it carefully down. That was his coat rolling off his shoulders, sliding down his arms; folded and draped. There, his shirtsleeves being rolled up, which meant the muted clink in the interim had been his cufflinks being dropped.

 

It all happened so softly, so slowly, that it felt somewhat dreamlike. And, as long as she didn’t turn around, it wasn’t real.

 

But finally there came the creak of his Italian leather shoes, his quiet progress across the room, and the next sound was a louder clunk and his shape appearing in her peripheral vision.

 

Her head wearily dragged upwards by degrees, almost too heavy a weight for her neck to bear, and she twisted a little to see him standing beside the couch. He wasn’t looking at her.

 

“Get out of my house,” she whispered again, and saw the line of his jaw tighten and flex.

 

He leaned down, and touched the tips of his first two fingers to the top of a bottle; one he must have just placed on the coffee table. Liquid amber glimmered in the light as he tipped it ever so slightly.

 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, voice hoarse, and turned away again.

 

“I didn’t come here to talk,” he replied, and his voice was flat and almost cold. At her lack of response the bottle was retrieved from the table, and he walked past her to go into the kitchen.

 

There were a few small noises – of him sorting through cupboards and drawers – and her eyes kept drifting back to the things for the baby. _The baby_. Then his form appeared at the door to the dining room, and shut it.

 

That was startling enough to garner her full attention. For several seconds her gaze stayed locked on the door he had closed, waiting for some explanation, for him to appear again, but there was nothing. The quiet was more noticeable than when he’d be making noise, somehow, and after a minute she hauled herself to her feet. The door was solid and cool under her fingertips, and she ran them down to the handle to rest upon it and stare. After a moment she released it, and made her way to the kitchen to go through the other entrance.

 

He’d made himself comfortable at one end of the dining room table.

 

Two glasses sat in front of him; cheap short rounded ones that she’d picked up from Target when their old ones had broken in the move. They looked incongruous next to what she was sure was an extremely expensive bottle of whisky.

 

She waited for a story, an explanation, but Red just sat slowly rubbing his hand over the back of his neck and staring off into the distance.

 

She didn’t know how to react to this. All of the flames and fury and brokenness inside her wanted a target, but his silent inactivity rendered him safe from her somehow - as though this version of him couldn’t trigger her senses.

 

It was only when she took three steps into the room that she realised the reason for the closed door to the living room; that, now that she was on this side of it, the endless accusation of the things for the baby were blocked off.

 

She’d been punishing herself before, sitting with them.

 

She’d been mourning.

 

The seat next to him was pulled out, waiting for her. She chose the one across the table instead, mirroring his posture; elbows on the table and shoulders hunched down. It seemed an unnatural pose for him; this was a man whose body language was always open and expansive, or powerful and intimidating.

 

She wondered if he regretted what he’d done, making her doubt herself and her marriage until she couldn’t have this baby.

 

Slowly he slid the other glass across the grain of the table, the muffled scrape of it loud in the empty house.

 

Her fingers found the edges of it, circled the rim. The aroma of it reached her nostrils, and she thought about drowning her sorrows, her sins, about drinking until she forgot.

 

She weighed the glass in her hand, and tamped down on the lightning urge to throw it at the wall.

 

She sat and drank with him in silence instead.

 

When he left he took the bottle, but she found his cufflinks still perched on the table by the door in the living room. Titanium, she thought; round and brushed in a complex pattern which her fingertips followed compulsively over and over.

 

She tucked them into a small velvet pouch in her jewellery box, and it didn’t occur to her until days later that her first thought should have been to give them back.

 

=======================

 

2.

 

The first dress she said no to was when Red tried to drag her to Cuba with him.

 

The first dress that she accepted was the one for the engagement at the Syrian Embassy, to steal the artefact for Madeline Pratt.

 

“I have a dress,” she objected when Red placed the wide, flat box on her desk and slid the lid aside.

 

All she’d been able to make out at first were glimpses of bright red silk amidst ruffles of white tissue paper. Technically at that point there was no way to tell it _was_ a dress, but it didn’t take that much deduction.

 

“I’m sure you do,” he said placatingly, so condescending that her fingers twitched and clenched. “But, Lizzie, you don’t have a dress like _this_.” She was distracted from the way that his voice always dipped low on her name when he carefully pulled the dress from the box, lifting it and draping it over his other arm so that she could see the length of it.

 

Her lips formed a smile before she could tell them not to, and the look of sheer delight in his eyes in response made her feel almost giddy. It was a struggle to clamp down on that strange surge of uncomplicated happiness, to smooth her expression into something approaching indifference.

 

“It probably won’t fit,” she murmured doubtfully, but her fingers reached out to stroke over the fabric anyway. It whispered under her fingertips, and she imagined what it would feel like against her skin, flowing around her.

 

“ _Lizzie_ ,” Red said chidingly, as though she should know him better than that. And of course she did.

 

It was for work. The best way to blend in that night. Really it was only sensible for her to accept it. ‘Just for work,’ she would tell Tom, and she imagined how her husband would look at her while she wore it.

 

“Alright,” she said, managing to sound long-suffering, and Red’s lips quirked in a way which suggested he wasn’t taken in for a second.

 

===========================

 

3.

 

They were in the car on the way to the embassy, and she couldn’t stop fidgeting. She usually tried not to, in front of Red; uncomfortable with what she might be giving away. Tonight, however, she felt she had ample reason to be nervous and not nearly enough motivation to hide it at the moment. All of her energy was going to go into her performance once she got there.

 

Red telling her that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her had been more reassuring than it had any right to be, but she’d seen the waves of chaos that swamped in his wake; it was just as likely that he’d end up doing something to put her in danger. And this world – not just a shallow pretence of being a criminal working with Red, but actually committing a crime – wasn’t one she felt comfortable in. It was like trying to fit her current shape into a different mould.

 

Whatever Red hinted he knew about her past, she’d certainly never done anything on this scale before.

 

As though reading her mind, he commented, “It’s no different,” and elaborated when she shot him a look. “They’re just people, Lizzie. Their outfits and manners don’t make them any more difficult to fool. And the safe won’t care where you got your experience.”

 

She gave him a tight smile. “The security is on a slightly different scale.”

 

He leaned back, and brought a thumb up to brush across his lips. “Is it?” he asked lightly. “I was under the impression that you might have cased some rather high profile targets.“

 

Despite being thrown for a loop when he’d mentioned her past ‘thieving’ experience, she’d done her best to roll with it – with Cooper and Ressler, with Madeline Pratt. It had irked her though, because _no one_ knew about it, apart from the few people directly involved - and she would have trusted all of them on her life not to have told.

 

“Rest assured that I wouldn’t have recommended you for the job if I didn’t think that your talents were up to scratch,” he added in the face of her silence.

 

Her fingers played with the catch to her clutch, flicking it smoothly open and closed and open again. When she felt she could trust her voice, she asked. “And where exactly did you get this impression?” He answered only with a mild look, and her brows drew down in a frown. “Telling Cooper and the others that I had experience with this; what kind of game are you playing?”

 

“No game, Lizzie.”

 

He wasn’t rising to her bait, his pose still casual and relaxed with one arm flung along the seat back behind him. She had turned in her seat to glare at him, but his gaze remained calm, fond, and she subsided with a huff.

 

“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” he said casually, and she glowered at him.

 

“Flattery won’t get you-“

 

“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth, Lizzie. And you’re clearly feeling self-conscious; you keep smoothing your dress, fiddling with the neckline. I _know_ you know you look fantastic, but if it will help to hear it again then I am more than happy to bestow the compliment.”

 

She glanced out of the window to hide the smile which tugged briefly at her lips. Red was over-the-top with his charm, sometimes, but that didn’t stop it from secretly feeling wonderful. “If I’m nervous, it’s because I’m about to walk onto foreign soil with the intent of committing a crime,” she reminded him again.

 

“I know, isn’t it wonderful!” he said cheerfully, and her lips twitched again despite herself.

 

She took a deep breath in, and let it out again. “Okay, so we go in, look for the-“

 

“Stop  _worrying_ , Lizzie. Honestly, The FBI with their plans within plans; you’ve forgotten that the most important thing for a criminal is to be able to  _adapt_.” His eyes caught hers, and held them. “No plan survives first contact with the enemy.”

 

Her eyes darted between his, and she nodded.

 

“Of course, that’s paraphrased. The original quote, by Moltke the Elder, was that the tactical-“

 

She placed her hand on his arm impatiently. “Red.”

 

He’d stopped mid-sentence at her movement, and his jaw worked for a second as he glanced down at her fingers, pale against his jacket.  

 

She rarely touched him, she belatedly realised, though he touched her all the time. In fact, aside from the time she’d stabbed him in the neck, she didn’t think she’d _ever_ been the one to reach out to him.

 

Finally, he cleared his throat, and she allowed her grip to slip away.

 

“Anyway, I have a good luck charm for you, Lizzie.” His voice a little deeper, more gravelly than it had been before. ”To ensure things go smoothly.”

 

She shifted to the side again as he slid a hand inside his jacket, and then he hesitated. “Although this would have been a great opportunity for you to show your skills again. You did such an excellent job on Madeline.”

 

“You want me to steal a good luck charm for myself?” she asked incredulously.

 

The smile which spread over his face was captivating; her gaze dropped unprompted to his lips. “That would be apt, wouldn’t it? It’s settled then,” and the spell was broken as he removed his hand and leaned back in the seat again. “It’s yours if you manage to retrieve it.”

 

\--------------

 

When he helped her out of the car, Liz halted next to the door, her hand still gently clasped in his.

 

His head tilted slightly to the side, a quizzical, “Lizzie?” on his lips, and she smoothly rested her other hand on his chest and dipped it into his inside jacket pocket, eyes locked with his all the while. Each movement along the way registered in heightened sensation. The texture of his shirt, smooth except for slight ridges of embroidered lines, the change from rougher material to glossy satin as she found the pocket of his jacket. He was warm, through the shirt, a comforting kind of warm; like freshly heated towels that you would want to press your face into, or bread still warm from the oven that you couldn’t help but run your fingers over.

 

Her heart beat fast in her ears, this somehow far more daring than an illicit brush pass could ever have been, and she felt his broad fingers tighten just a little around her other hand.

 

Her fingertips brushed something long and metal, easy to catch between her first two fingers, and she drew her hand out just as obviously as she had slipped it inside.

 

“You didn’t specify any rules,” she muttered quietly, when his gaze only grew more intense.

 

“You’re _fascinating_ when you improvise, Lizzie” he breathed, and she found herself unaccountably blushing.

 

It was a lockpick, plain and scratched, with a slight dent in the handle. His, she wondered? But he’d said thieving wasn’t his speciality.

 

“You know I already have one of these, right?” she said, but she was strangely touched.

 

“I’ll feel better if you have this one with you.”

 

_I won’t need a lockpick tonight_ , was on the tip of her tongue, but the intensity of his gaze ensured the words never left her lips.

 

It stayed with her for the rest of the night, slipped inside her bra; the metal resting warm against her skin. She wasn’t sure it brought her luck, but the rigid spine of it brought inexplicable reassurance while she was tied to a chair.

 

And he came for her. The way she was beginning to suspect he always would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of secretly awesome criminal Liz so much I'm going to have to write another fic on it.


End file.
